


Improbable Remains

by tamed_untranslatable



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence - The Hounds of Baskerville, Drunk Sex, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Happy Ending, M/M, Miscommunication, One Night Stands, POV Alternating, Silly, but i had fun writing it so, verging on crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 08:29:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7927831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tamed_untranslatable/pseuds/tamed_untranslatable
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“So we, um.” His left hand clenched at his side underneath the table. "We probably shouldn’t bring this back to London, then."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"No, quite right.” Sherlock nodded.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“I mean, I don’t want to ruin…” The uncertainty had returned to John’s eyes as he looked back at Sherlock.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>“No, absolutely not,” Sherlock agreed, and now he was beginning to feel some of that relief, too. Wherever he may have imagined this would lead, he knew that he couldn’t bear to lose John’s friendship. “It can just be something for Dartmoor, then."</i>
  <br/>
  <i>"Right, yeah. Just a Dartmoor thing.” John nodded.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Improbable Remains

**Author's Note:**

> A silly, unbeta'd fic based on a plot bunny I had while watching _Friends_. So, if some of the plot/dialogue seems ~~blatantly lifted from~~ inspired by episode 5.01 ( _The One After Ross Says Rachel_ ) well, that's why.

John didn’t intend for it to happen. He _certainly_ didn’t intend for it to happen like this. All the times he’d imagined it, it was always slow, deliberate. He’d thought they would take their time. He’d thought he’d be able to explore, to savour it. He’d never once thought it would be a frantic, desperate affair on the tail end of their strangest case yet, hundreds of miles from home.

Maybe it had been Dartmoor’s rolling hills and sky full of scattered stars. Maybe it had been the edges of adrenaline and fear still coursing through his shaking heart following the hound, the gunshots, the explosion. Or maybe it had been the five pints each that they’d downed at the pub in the Cross Keys afterward, urgently needing an escape.

They’d staggered up the stairs, more than half leaning on each other, and Sherlock’s head was thrown back, laughing. John was rapt – he’d never seen Sherlock drink like this before, and he was finally relaxed, his cheeks more than a little flushed, the long length of his neck bared before John’s hungry eyes.

Before John even knew what he was doing he had pushed Sherlock up against the wall and was kissing him, _hard_. He plunged his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth and tasted, because why the hell not, he’d wanted to for long enough and they could have died tonight, and Sherlock was still with shock only for a moment before he was kissing him back, his hands wrapping around John’s shoulders and pulling him in.

“Wait,” Sherlock whispered suddenly, breaking off. John ignored him and kissed him again. Sherlock melted into his touch for one brief moment, then found himself again and pulled back, gripped John by the shoulders and held him in place. His eyes searched John’s, deducing. “How drunk are you?”

John was panting, fighting the urge to grind against Sherlock’s thigh. “Drunk enough to know that I want this,” he offered, breathless. “You?”

Sherlock paused, considering. Then something shifted in his eyes. “About the same,” he said, and pulled him back in, and they kissed and kissed until one of them had the good sense to push them backward through the door into John’s room, and then they kissed some more.

The room was dark and they fumbled for a while with clothing, too frantic to stop and work their way through it. The tiny twin bed made movements awkward (John thought about complaining to the innkeeper after all), but they weren’t exactly in a position to grumble about it, and they groped and rutted against each other and came apart with deep moans and shaking gasps, and John was asleep with Sherlock’s liquor-soured breath against his neck before his brain even had a chance to get a handle on what they had just done.

It was only in the morning, when the sunlight trickled through the faded curtains and made John wince with a familiar headache, that a pit of dread began to swell somewhere deep in his chest.

Before he could start to panic about what it all meant and what they were supposed to do now and _oh God what will he say what will he want how do I handle this_ , there was a knock on the door that startled them both back to full consciousness, and then Sherlock was scrambling to gather up his clothes while John desperately searched for a pair of pants and a dressing gown.

“Who is it?” John called out, tossing Sherlock’s trousers at him.

“It’s Gary, Mr. Watson,” replied the innkeeper’s voice. “I’ve got breakfast, shall I bring it in?”

“ _No!_ ” John all but yelled. Sherlock had frozen with his shirt half-buttoned, eyes wide. “I mean, don’t worry, we’ll – _I’ll_ come down and have it in just a minute.”

“Gotcha,” the voice came again, and John’s stomach flipped at the knowing tone in it. “Whenever you’re ready.”

His footsteps gradually faded away, and John let his shoulders relax a bit. He turned toward Sherlock tentatively, afraid of what he might find in his expression, but all he could see was his own relief reflected back.

“Go on then,” he said, doing up his belt and smiling. “I’ll shower and meet you down there in a few minutes.”

“Sure,” John breathed out, still reeling. He crouched over his bag to find a fresh set of clothes while Sherlock slipped out through the door and back to his own room, and felt that pit of dread grow darker.

***

Two mugs of coffee in hand, Sherlock took a deep, steadying breath before turning around and walking out the door to the back tables. John was crouched over a plate of toast and beans, only the slightly mussed patch of hair at the back of his head to indicate that anything was out of the ordinary, and Sherlock crossed over and pushed one of the mugs toward him on the table.

“Ta,” John muttered, swallowing down a mouthful and reaching for it.

“So they didn’t have it put down then, the dog.” Sherlock sipped at his coffee, looking back toward the inn – he wasn’t sure if this was the best way to go about…whatever this was, but it seemed best to let John take the lead when he was ready.

John cleared his throat, sounding a bit surprised. “Obviously. Suppose they just couldn’t bring themselves to do it.”

“I see.”

“No, you don’t.” There was a smile in John’s voice, but he still wasn’t looking at him.

Sherlock gulped down too much of his coffee, the inside of his mouth burning. “No, I don’t. Sentiment?”

“Sentiment,” John agreed.

Sherlock couldn’t explain why his heart felt like it was sinking slightly in his chest as he sat down on the bench next to John, still facing away.

He waited for John to speak, resisting the overwhelming need to look over at him, search his face, find out _precisely_ what he was thinking. What he wanted Sherlock to do now.

A few quiet bites later, and John finally put down his fork with something that sounded like a sigh.

“Listen, Sherlock…”

Sherlock risked an unsure glance, found John pursing his lips nervously.

“About last night…”

_Oh._

John’s tone told Sherlock everything he needed to know.

“I mean –” John looked briefly up into Sherlock’s eyes, wide with something like pity. “What we did last night – well, it was…”

“A mistake, yes.” Sherlock nodded, and his heart sank further at the relief that flooded through John’s face.

“Yeah.” John’s breath left him in a rush, his brow relaxing. “I mean, you know, we’d had a few, and –”

“Yes, I agree.” Sherlock did his best to match the brightness in John’s eyes, and supposed he must have succeeded. “And besides, we were away.”

“Right, yeah, must have been this place,” John carried on, his lips twitching up at the corners. “You know, rabid dogs, murderous scientists…”

“Would have gotten to anyone.” Despite himself, Sherlock felt the ghost of laughter rising in his throat.

John chuckled a bit, looking away as he took another bite of his toast.

“So we, um.” His left hand clenched at his side underneath the table. “We probably shouldn’t bring this back to London, then.”

“No, quite right.” Sherlock nodded.

“I mean, I don’t want to ruin…” The uncertainty had returned to John’s eyes as he looked back at Sherlock.

“No, absolutely not,” Sherlock agreed, and now he was beginning to feel some of that relief, too. Wherever he may have imagined this would lead, he knew that he couldn’t bear to lose John’s friendship. “It can just be something for Dartmoor, then.”

“Right, yeah. Just a Dartmoor thing.” John nodded. He flicked a stray crumb from his plate, sighing gratefully.

 _Well. That’s that, then._ Sherlock stared down at his mug. He hadn’t properly eaten in a long while, but the thought of food now made his insides churn. He sipped at his coffee, trying not to wince as he forced it down.

“You know…”

The hesitation in John’s voice was different from what it had just been. Sherlock looked back up at him to find his brow raised, almost shyly.

“As long as we’re still _in_ Dartmoor…”

The words clicked into place slowly in Sherlock’s mind.

“Well, I mean…” John swallowed. “We don’t have to check out until noon…”

Sherlock blinked, considering.

If he’d been expecting anything at all, it wasn’t this, but he couldn’t deny how much his pulse had kicked up in his throat suddenly, matching John’s elevated breathing rate. Maybe it wasn’t ideal, but if it really was just sex, what harm could it do?

“The innkeepers won’t go upstairs again for the rest of the morning,” he supplied in a quick, low breath.

“Meet you there in five minutes?” John pushed his plate forward; it was still half-full.

“Alright.”

John was already out of his seat, walking a bit too quickly toward the inn.

Sherlock made himself stay still until he finished his coffee, each sip agonizingly slow, his fingers drumming impatiently on the table. In the end he probably didn’t quite make it to five minutes, but found himself not caring one bit as he swept up from the table and back through the lobby.

He picked his way through waiting customers, zigzagging through tables toward the staircase, until –

“God, never seen _anything_ like it, have you?”

_Oh, no._

“Sherlock!” Lestrade greeted him jovially as he rounded the corner. “We were just talking about everything – nasty business, isn’t it?”

John was nodding on Lestrade’s other side, one foot on the bottom stair, looking at Sherlock with something like an apology in his eyes.

“I mean, the dog, Dr. Frankland, the bloody minefield…” Lestrade’s arms were crossed in front of his chest as he rambled on, oblivious. “Good job Anderson wasn’t here, his team would've had a field day out in that hollow.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock murmured, hardly listening, his eyes still locked with John’s. “Shouldn’t you be off to breakfast, George?”

“It’s _Greg_ ,” he said, with an amused sigh. “And no, I’ve just had it. So listen, when are you two driving back?”

Something like panic rose up in Sherlock’s throat, and he saw John’s eyes widen in turn.

“Uh, soon, I guess,” John said, the barest note of resignation cutting through his steady voice. “We were just going to, um…”

“Great, because I don’t really want to get the train back, so you don’t mind if I tag along, do you?”

Sherlock faltered, looking from Lestrade back to John, searching desperately in his face for a way out. But there wasn’t any to be found, and John knew it too – Sherlock could see it in the way his shoulders dropped with the smallest hint of a sigh.

“No, ‘course not,” John said with a smile that Sherlock thought seemed forced. “We’ll just get our things, then.”

“Perfect, thanks mate.” Lestrade grinned at them both, and then turned to climb the stairs after John. Sherlock followed them, his footfalls a bit heavy, and he caught John’s eye just for a moment as he turned over his shoulder with a doleful smile, just long enough to give him a curt nod and look back down at his feet. Maybe it was better this way after all.

***

The drive back felt eons longer than the drive out. John kept up a semi-lighthearted conversation with Lestrade throughout most of it, though mainly because he felt compelled to, feeling far less comfortable than he sounded. Sherlock, of course, hardly contributed, mostly silent behind the wheel, and John talked to distract himself from what hung in the space between them, that heavy undeniable tension that refused to dissipate even as they left Dartmoor far behind them.

It got harder and harder to distract himself the longer they drove, and John was relieved when they dropped Lestrade off at his shabby Chiswick flat (a bit of a downgrade after the divorce). At least then he could stop overcompensating for Lestrade’s sake, and let things just settle back into how they were.

It was for the best, John reminded himself. If Sherlock didn’t want what John wanted, well, there was no sense in chasing it, was there? It had hurt to pull back from the only night they’d ever have, to carry on like it meant so little to him, but John would rather have put it behind them entirely than jeopardize what they _did_ have by asking Sherlock for what he was unwilling to give.

“Thank God that’s over,” Sherlock said with a sigh. John wasn’t sure if he meant driving with Lestrade or the whole Dartmoor thing in general, but John nodded in agreement.

“Yeah.” He risked a glance at him out of the corner of his eye, looking away before Sherlock could look back.

A heavy silence fell over them. Sherlock tapped restlessly at the steering wheel, and John wished he knew what to say now.

“You know.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “We’re _technically_ still outside Central London…”

John’s eyes snapped back to meet Sherlock’s, finding them full of a strange inviting determination – the kind John only saw on him when he was faced with a particularly intriguing case.

And _oh_ , John could feel within him that this was a bad idea, but there was no way he was going to turn it down now. Just like this morning, just like last night, there was no part of him that was prepared to refuse whatever he could get.

“We have the car until seven o’clock tonight,” John almost whispered.

Sherlock’s eyes were sinfully dark. “There’s an abandoned car park ten minutes from here, far away from any heavy traffic.”

“Go.” John made an almost frantic grab for his seatbelt as Sherlock started the car.

John’s heart was hammering against his ribs as Sherlock pulled onto the main road, barely noticing that he was driving much more quickly than he should have been. John stared determinedly out the front window, almost afraid that he’d burn himself if he looked at Sherlock directly, and jumped, startled, when Sherlock’s mobile rang from where it sat on the centre console.

“Wait, Sherlock –” John stammered out, but not before Sherlock had instinctively hit the answer button.

“Hello?” he huffed, tetchy.

“Hello, brother dear,” came the familiar sardonic voice.

John closed his eyes in frustration, and Sherlock sighed irritably.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked through his teeth, slowing down to stop at a red light.

“Oh, nothing at all, it’s just that I’ve heard from Detective Inspector Lestrade that you’re back in London now –”

“Not _technically_ ,” John muttered under his breath.

“– and I’m _sure_ I don’t have to remind you that I’ll be needing you in my office to complete all the necessary paperwork concerning your activities of the past couple days, now do I?”

Sherlock huffed out another exasperated breath. “No, fine, we’ll be in tomorrow morning.”

Mycroft laughed humourlessly. “Oh, I rather think you’ll be in right away, because I have done you a _colossal_ favour in getting you into Baskerville, and now you will repay me in an absolutely _infinitesimal_ amount by allowing me to finish this all off quickly.”

“Alright, _fine_ , fair enough.” Sherlock was clearly fighting to keep his voice even. “Just give us _time_ – we’ll be there in, say, an hour and a half?”

“Or two hours?” John added without thinking.

Sherlock looked up at John. His eyes were wide with what John couldn’t help but think was… _hunger_. John’s breath caught in his throat.

“Two hours and we could get there twice,” Sherlock said, his voice deeper than John had ever heard it.

John swallowed heavily, suddenly unable to look away.

“You will _not_ be here in two hours,” Mycroft’s voice came, cutting through sharply. “You will be here _now_ , because I have nearly reached the end of my tether with this entire Baskerville situation, and I’m quite sure you wouldn’t want that to happen.”

John cut in, desperately. “But, Mycroft, surely –”

“Let me make myself perfectly clear,” Mycroft interrupted. “If the two of you are not in my office within twenty minutes, I will personally see to it that information is discovered on your background checks for Scotland Yard that will ensure neither of you will ever consult for them again. Is that understood?”

There was no room for negotiation in Mycroft’s voice.

John’s hand clenched in his lap; he held himself in Sherlock’s gaze, still fighting to keep still, and felt that breathless anticipation trickle away, leaving cold defeat in its wake. He saw that hunger in Sherlock’s eyes cloud over with a similar resignation, and he knew that it was hopeless. John tore his eyes away, dropping his head and sighing.

“Fine,” Sherlock said, his voice bitten off. “Twenty minutes.”

Sherlock hit the end button; his mouth was set into a thin line as he turned back to the road, hitting the gas again. John leaned back into his seat and said nothing. He spent the remaining part of the journey staring out the window, but couldn’t stop himself from stealing tiny glances back at Sherlock, whose eyes were set determinedly forward; only once did he catch John out of the corner of his eye, hesitantly, and John held the look for far too long before he had to turn away, the overwhelming sense of a missed opportunity too heavy in the space between them

***

It may have been Sherlock’s irritation at his brother’s spectacularly poor timing, but Mycroft seemed particularly insufferable today. Sherlock swore that half the documents he brought to them weren’t even necessary, just his attempt at petty revenge, and sun had dipped below the London skyline before he’d finally gotten everything he needed.

They were silent in the cab back to Baker Street – whatever had lingered between them earlier was gone now, disappeared with the fleeting, unseized moment. Sherlock supposed he should be grateful that they really _had_ left everything behind in Dartmoor – it would make going forward much easier – but the dark mass that had settled in the pit of his stomach didn’t seem to be swayed by that kind of logic. At least, he reasoned, if it was all over, there would be no further disappointments; he could take comfort in that.

They lugged their bags up the stairs toward 221B, weariness from the day exuding out of both of them. Sherlock sighed gratefully as he dropped his suitcase just inside the sitting room door and peeled off his coat, hoping to expel the last twenty-four hours out of his system entirely.

“It’ll be nice to get back into my own bed tonight,” John said as he stretched out his shoulder, and Sherlock’s heart couldn’t help but lift a little at the smile in his voice.

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, taking John’s coat to hang it. “Another good reason for our Dartmoor rule, I suppose.”

It might have been the wrong time, but John chuckled anyway, as Sherlock had hoped.

“Yeah,” he said, quietly, and Sherlock smiled too. Maybe this wouldn’t be too terrible, after all.

“Listen, um,” John went on. “While we’re on that subject…”

Sherlock froze for a fraction of a second – the pit in his stomach swelled at the nervousness that had crept back into John’s tone, and he desperately hoped he wasn’t about to apologize for it again.

“I just wanted to tell you that, um…”

Sherlock turned around, hands safely in his pockets so he wouldn’t feel compelled to bridge the distance between them. John was smiling, still, though there was something earnest in his eyes that made Sherlock soften – made the darkness in his chest shrink down to something safe.

“Well…” John cast his eyes down briefly as he searched for words. “I was having a bit of a hard time in Dartmoor – you know, I’ve, I’ve been alone for a while, and –” He swallowed, his cheeks tinting the slightest shade of pink. “We had our moment the night before, by the fire…”

“Right.” Sherlock nodded, his lips quirking upward in sympathy. He understood.

“Well, um,” John finally looked directly at Sherlock, his lips pursing briefly before evening out into something beautifully genuine. “Last night meant a lot to me.” His eyes were deeper than Sherlock had ever seen them. “And, I guess I’m just trying to say thank you.”

Sherlock blinked once, twice, an unexpected warmth spreading up through him.

“Oh,” he said, gently.

So much of what he was feeling was reflected back in John’s eyes, and Sherlock didn’t quite know how to express it.

“Last night meant a lot to me, too,” he carried on, his voice quiet. “And it wasn’t just because of everything I was feeling – about the hound…”

John nodded knowingly, and Sherlock relaxed a bit more.

“It just, meant a lot to me, because,” and here Sherlock put on his very best crooked smile, letting it reach his eyes. “You’re really hot.”

John burst into a low chuckle, and the sound made Sherlock’s heart feel lighter than it had been all day.

“Is that okay?” Sherlock asked, grinning softly.

“Yeah,” John replied, his voice brighter now. “That’s okay.”

Sherlock bit his lip, playfully. “And I’m handsome too.”

John laughed harder, the sound ringing out clearly and beautifully in the small space. “And you’re handsome, too,” he agreed, nodding.

“Thank you.” Sherlock allowed himself to laugh, too. This really would be alright, he thought; anything would be alright, as long as he was still able to make John laugh.

They let the last of the giggles escape them, then John sighed with a bright smile and stooped to pick up his bag. “I’d better go unpack,” he said, a bit shyly, a bit endearingly.

“Right.” Sherlock nodded, and John grinned at him again before moving out onto the landing.

Sherlock watched him as he left, closing the door behind him. John’s footfalls echoed through the staircase as he climbed up to his bedroom, and Sherlock’s smile faltered only a little, his shoulders sagging only a fraction of an inch as his steps faded into silence.

Sherlock started toward the door and reached out for the handle, but his fingers froze in the empty air. He hovered there for a moment as his heartbeat evened out again, and then slowly, slowly curled them into a loose fist, sighing as he dropped his hand to his side.

He turned back around to face the sitting room, stepping towards the table. He nodded once, resigned, running his fingers along the wooden edges and staring out into the street.

His mind felt hollow – as if someone had reached in and swept out everything in one elegant motion, erasing everything from his farthest-reaching knowledge to his most immediate perception of the world.

Which is why he only snapped back to himself when he heard the door slam shut behind him.

Sherlock turned around to see John again, with an intense, desperate sort of vulnerability worrying the creases of his brow.

“I still have to write up Dartmoor on the blog, does that count?”

Sherlock’s breath escaped him in a low rush. “Oh, that counts.”

“Oh, good,” John gasped out, and he was across the room before Sherlock could even start to move toward him, wrapping his arms around him before Sherlock’s could find their rightful place across his shoulders, and kissing him, and kissing him, and kissing him some more.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment telling me what you thought. You can also follow me on [tumblr](http://totheverybestoftimes.tumblr.com/).


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